CW: mild references to self-harm and body horror
Cinders, smoulders, ruin on earth
Like throats that grab me by the – wait –
And haul me slow through rough and tar
And scratch me flying up and up,
(Easy now, cantabile)
Whirling day, birth of thought
That far outstretch this meagre meet
Of eyes that swim and fill with ash
To blink a bloodshot world away
And drink in rough, and burn, and heat
Until she comes to kiss the dark.
I’d go gladly, by the end.